The Arctic Event (13 page)
Dr. Adaran Gupta, India, climatologist and assistant expedition leader. A lean, dark scholar’s face peered back at Smith from the file photo.
You are a long way from New Delhi, Doctor.
“Climatology and meteorology?” Smith commented. “I gather global warming and the melting of the arctic ice pack were major points of concern?”
“It was
the
major point of concern, Colonel.”
Smith nodded and flipped to the next page.
Kayla Brown, U.S.A., graduate student, geophysics; pretty, delicate, almost elfin. She was hardly the classic image of the hard-bitten polar explorer. But apparently she’d had the guts and skills to claw her way onto this expedition over what must have been several hundred male applicants.
Ian Rutherford, a biology major from England, handsome in a boy-next-door kind of way, if next door happened to be the British Midlands.
Dr. Keiko Hasegawa, Japan, a second meteorology specialist. Sober, studious, a little on the plain and plump side. Possibly she’d balanced a slow social life with an exceptional dedication to her field of endeavor.
Stefan Kropodkin, Slovakia, cosmic ray astronomy; lanky, dark-haired, an amiable slaunchwise grin, and a little older than the other graduate students.
Probably you’re the one giving Ms. Brown the most attention, desired or not.
Smith flipped the folder shut. He wasn’t prepared to make any assumptions on nationality, race, sex, or potential political orientation. That was a fool’s game, for greed or fanaticism could wear any face. Covert One and a variety of other intelligence and law enforcement agencies would be hard at work dissecting the past lives of these six individuals. When he arrived on Wednesday Island it would be his duty to dissect their here and now.
He felt himself being regarded, and he looked up to find both Dr. Trowbridge and Professor Metrace looking at him. From Trowbridge’s expression, he was puzzled. From Valentina’s smile and the ironic lift of her eyebrow, she was busy reading Smith’s mind.
Smith returned the file folder to the mess table. “Professor Metrace, have you seen Major Smyslov?”
“I think he’s out on deck absorbing a little nicotine,” she replied.
“Then if you will both excuse me, I need to speak with the major about a few things.”
The cutter’s drive through the sea put a chill wind across her darkened decks. Gregori Smyslov flared the butane lighter within his cupped palm, touching the flame to the tip of his cigarette. He inhaled once, deeply, and let the smoke hiss slowly through his clenched teeth.
He needed to contact General Baranov. He needed to find out what in all hell was going on! He had a secure phone number that would be guarded by the Russian Federation military attaché at the embassy in Washington, but Smith’s ordering of an immediate sailing this afternoon had not given him the chance to make a call.
And even if he had accessed a clear phone, would he be able to trust the person at the other end? Somebody knew! Somebody outside the
konspiratsia
knew!
But how much? About the Misha 124, obviously. They must also know the anthrax was still aboard the bomber. That would be the minimum that could conceivably justify this afternoon’s airborne assassination attempt. But what other knowledge might they possess?
Smyslov took another heavy drag on his cigarette. The anthrax and the risk of it falling into the hands of a terrorist group would be bad enough. But what if there was something more? What if they knew of the March Fifth Event?
That was a nightmare worth considering. What if someone outside the circle of thirty-two knew about the Event and of the possibility that evidence of it still existed aboard the downed bomber? What if they were striving to prevent the destruction of that evidence and obtain it for themselves?
What if an organization or even a single individual gained the ability to blackmail a major nuclear power? It would dwarf the threat of even a planeload of anthrax to insignificance.
Lost in that dark thought, Smyslov started as a voice spoke nearby. “As a physician I’m required to warn you that smoking is bad for your health.”
Jon Smith’s silhouette detached itself from the shadows down deck and came to lean on the cable rail beside Smyslov. “And now that I’ve performed that duty, please feel free to tell me to go to hell.”
Smyslov chuckled dryly and flipped the glowing cigarette butt over the side. “We haven’t invented lung cancer in Russia yet, Colonel.”
“I just wanted to tell you again, thanks for what you did today.”
Smyslov caught himself before he could reach for his lighter and cigarette pack again. “We were all riding in the same helicopter.”
“So we were,” the silhouette agreed. “So, Major, what do you think?”
“To speak the truth, Colonel, I don’t know what to think.” And it was the truth.
“Do you have any idea at all who might have been behind the attack?”
Smyslov shook his head. Now he would lie again. “None. Someone must have learned that the Misha 124 was a bioweapons platform. They must be acting on the assumption the anthrax might still be aboard the aircraft and are attempting to prevent us from reaching the crash site first. That’s the only thing that would make any sense.”
“You’d think so,” Smith mused. “But someone is certainly committing a lot of resources on a speculation.” He turned his head and looked directly at Smyslov. “The Alaskan authorities are also speculating about the possible involvement of the Russian mafia.”
Good. Smyslov could tell the truth again. “This is entirely possible, Colonel. It would be foolish to deny that certain criminal elements within my country have developed a great degree of power and influence within our government.”
Smyslov grimaced. “The members of our underworld had a considerable advantage over the rest of our nation. They were the one facet of Russian society not controlled by the Communists.”
Smith chuckled in the darkness, and they looked out across the darkened wave tops for a time, listening to the hiss of the hull cutting through the water.
Finally Smyslov spoke. “Colonel, can you tell me if my government has been notified of today’s attack?”
“I really can’t say for sure,” Smith replied. “My superiors have been advised of the situation, and they’ve informed me that all available resources are being put to use to identify our attackers. I’d presume that includes Russian resources.”
“I see.”
Smith hesitated, then continued. “Major, if you wish to speak directly with your superiors about this incident, I can arrange it. If you are concerned about...security, I can offer you my word that you will be able to speak freely. Your communications will not be monitored.”
Smyslov considered for moment.
What can I safely say to who?
“No, that will not be necessary.”
“As you like. The offer stands.” Smith’s voice mellowed. “So tell me, Major, hearts, bridge, or poker—which is your game?”
Off Reykjavik, Iceland
In another ocean, half a world away, a second ship sailed.
The captain of the deep-ocean trawler
Siffsdottar
had thought that his ship’s long run of bad luck had at last come to an end. Now he wasn’t so sure.
The North Atlantic fisheries had been a depressed industry for a long time, and cheeseparing and procrastination on the part of the trawler’s owners had not made matters any easier. Finally, as it inevitably must, the neglected maintenance had caught up with them.
Siffsdottar
had spent most of last season held up in the yards with a protracted and expensive series of engine room casualties. The owners, as owners inevitably do, found it easier to blame the ship rather than themselves.
Siffsdottar
had been facing the breakers’ yard, and her captain and crew the beach when, like a miracle, a last-minute reprieve had appeared: a month-long charter by a film company for enough money to pay off the repairs and poor season both. Only they must sail immediately to meet a production deadline.
For once the owners and crew were in accord. They were happy to oblige.
But when the “filmmakers” had come aboard they had proved to be a gang of twenty extremely tough-looking men, even by the standards of the hard-bitten trawler crew. There had also been a decided lack of camera equipment, just a good deal of electronics and radio gear.
And the guns. Those hadn’t made an appearance until after they had gotten under way. Two of the “filmmakers” lounged at the rear of the darkened wheelhouse now, each of them with an automatic pistol thrust openly in his belt.
They offered no explanation, and the trawlermen decided it prudent not to ask for one.
The leader of the filmmakers, a tall, burly red-bearded man who relayed his orders in strangely accented English, had laid in a course to the west-northwest, their destination being a set of nameless GPS coordinates deep within Hudson Bay. He had also instructed that the trawler’s radio be disabled. His people would handle all communications for the voyage, “for business reasons.”
Siffsdottar
’s captain now strongly suspected that his owners had made yet another bad business decision. But as the flashing point light at Iceland’s westernmost land’s end drifted past to starboard, he also suspected that there was little he could now do about it. Instead he would fall back on an ancient Icelandic survival mechanism: strict, stolid neutrality and a hope for the best. It had seen Iceland through a number of the world’s wars essentially untouched. Perhaps it would suffice here.
Belowdecks, the Command Section had taken over the main salon as the operations center. Seated at the big mess table, Anton Kretek splashed three fingers of Aquavit into a squat glass. Taking a slurping gulp, he grimaced. This Icelandic liquor was muck, but it was the muck that was available.
“Do you have the reports from Canada Section yet?” he demanded irritably.
“Downloading now, Mr. Kretek,” the chief communications officer replied from his laptop workstation. “It will take a moment to decrypt.”
The Internet had proven a boon to the international businessman and the international criminal alike, providing instant, secure communications from point to point anywhere on the planet. A dinner-plate-sized sat phone dish, deployed in the trawler’s upper works, linked them into the global telecommunications net, and the finest in commercial encryption programs sealed their Internet messaging away from prying eyes.
A portable laser printer hissed and spat out a series of hard-copy sheets. Pushing his chair back from the communications desk, the communicator passed the hard copy over his shoulder to the waiting Kretek.
Taking a small torpedo-shaped Danish cigarillo from the ashtray, the arms merchant puffed and read, the strong tobacco smoke blending with the salon’s background smell of diesel and fish oil.
Kretek frowned. There was good news and bad in the dispatches. The attempts to disrupt the joint Russian-American investigation had failed. Kretek hadn’t had high hopes for the effort in the first place. The group’s point man in Alaska had been forced to hire and equip whatever was available at short notice, in this case, local Russian mafia street trash.
The ad hoc interceptor dispatched to kill the investigators’ helicopter had failed to return. As there had been no news reports of an attack on the government expedition, or of a plane lost, it had probably gone down at sea or in the wilderness in an accidental crash.
So be it. Let the investigation team come. If they beat him on site, he would rely on his agent on the island and on the shock effect of his main force’s arrival. If a few history buffs made a nuisance of themselves at the wrong time, that would be their problem. Timing, planning, and the weather would be his allies against the outside world.
Kretek took another draw from the cigarillo, followed by a throat-clearing sip of the liquor. Unless, of course, there had been more to the investigation team than had met the eye. Was it possible that the governments involved knew of the incredible prize that was still aboard the bomber?
That seemed unlikely. If the truth was known, the Americans would be racing to secure the aircraft with all their considerable assets, and their national media would be having hysterics over the anthrax threat. The Russians must have assured them that the bomber’s payload had been jettisoned, if they had mentioned it at all. The former Soviet weapons experts within the Kretek Group had assured their leader that this would be standard operating procedure.
For some reason SOP had not been followed aboard this particular aircraft, and Anton Kretek was prepared to take full advantage of the fact.
The second dispatch, from Vlahovich and the Canada group, was far more favorable. Suitable aircraft had been procured, and suitable aircrewmen had been brought in through Canadian customs. Refueling base A was being established, and sites for bases B and C were being surveyed. Very favorable. Very favorable indeed.
The final dispatch secured the arms merchant’s good mood. It was from Wednesday Island, indicating that no alarm had been raised. The station staff was preparing for the arrival of the aviation historians and for their own winter extraction. No problems noted. Operations proceeding.
Now that the plan was under way, Kretek would be able to send their ETA and his final phase instructions on to Wednesday. If all continued to go as well as it had so far, it would be a most pleasant reunion.
Kretek grinned and poured another finger of liquor in his glass. It was tasting better all the time.
Off the Eastern End of Wednesday Island
The stars stabbed through rents in the cloud cover, their light refracting and reflecting off the jumbled pressure ridges of the ice pack, granting hunting illumination to the great, shambling bulk that moved spectrally among them.
The polar bear was still a comparative youngster, a mere eight hundred pounds of rippling muscle and perpetual hunger thickly sheathed in glossy white fur. His instincts were driving him southward, to follow the edge of the expanding freeze up. But he had paused for a time in the vicinity of Wednesday Island. The stressed ice around the island had provided hauling-out leads and breathing holes for a lingering population of ring and hood seals, and a profitable hunting ground for a polar bear.
The bear had slain twice in the past week, crushing the skulls of his prey with swift, precise swats of his massive paws, his powerful jaws stripping the seal carcasses of the rich blubber that he needed to fuel his biological furnaces against the piercing cold of the arctic environment. But winter loomed, and the seals were fleeing ahead of it. The bear must commit to his own southward drift as well. Either that or he must explore the possibilities of his only other potential food source: the odd, decidedly unseallike animals that inhabited the island itself and that walked upright on two legs.
The polar bear was not familiar with these creatures, but the wind had carried him the scent of their sweet, hot blood, and on the ice, meat was meat.
The bear dropped down from the pressure ridge onto the thin flat surface of a recently refrozen lead. Here, where the ice was thin and still pliant, he might find a more conventional meal: a seal gnawing its way to the surface and a breath of air. Padding silently to the center of the open lead, the polar bear paused, his head held low to the ice sheet, extending his senses, feeling and listening for the faintest hint of sound or vibration from below.
There! There was a sense of something moving below the ice.
And then came a titanic shock, and the bear was lifted off his feet and hurled through the air. Such indignities were simply not supposed to happen to the lords of the Arctic! He hit the ice sprawling. Scrambling to his feet, the bear fled in abject terror, bawling his protest to an uncaring night.
A great black axe blade pressed up from beneath the surface of the frozen lead, the shattered ice groaning and splintering as it opened, flowerlike, around it. The mammoth Oscar-class SSGN bulled its way through the pack, hatches crashing open atop its sail as it stabilized on the surface. Men poured out of those hatches, dark, weather-scarred faces contrasting against the white of their arctic camouflage clothing. Some of them swung lithely down to the ice using the ladder rungs inset in the sides of the submarine’s conning tower. Dropping to the surface of the lead, they fanned out, unslinging AK-74 assault rifles as they established their security perimeter.
The others focused on hoisting their gear up and out of the red-lit belly of the undersea vessel: loaded backpacks, white equipment, and ration-stuffed duffel bags, collapsible fiberglass man-hauling sledges, and cases of ammunition and explosives. All that they would need to live, fight, and destroy in a polar environment for a protracted time.
The commanders of both the naval Spetsnaz platoon and the submarine were the last up the ladder to the submarine’s bridge.
“Damnation, but this is cold,” the sub commander muttered.
Lieutenant Pavel Tomashenko of the Naval Infantry Special Forces grinned in self-superiority and repeated the old saw. “In weather like this the flowers bloom in the streets of Pinsk.”
The submarine commander was not amused. “I need to submerge as soon as possible. I want to give this lead a chance to refreeze before the next American satellite pass.” As was the case with all good submariners, he was a nervous and unhappy man on the surface. And he had reason to be so. He was inside Canadian territorial waters in an area forbidden to probing foreign submarines. And while the Canadian naval forces were totally incapable of enforcing this prohibition, the atomic hunter-killer boats of the United States Navy also cheerfully and routinely disregarded this restriction.
“Do not worry, Captain, we will be away in a few more minutes,” Tomashenko replied, glancing down at his men as they loaded their sleds. “We must be under cover by the time of the next pass as well. There will be no problems.”
“So we can hope,” the submariner grunted. “I will endeavor to keep to the communications schedule, but I must remind you, Lieutenant, I can make no promises. It will depend on my finding open-water leads for the deployment of my radio masts. I will return to these coordinates once every twenty-four hours, and I will listen for your sounding charges and your through-ice transponder. I can do no more.”
“That will be quite adequate, Captain. You run a very efficient taxi service.
Dos ve danya.
”
Tomashenko swung himself over the rim of the bridge and lowered himself toward the frozen lead.
The sub skipper only muttered his response under his breath. It galled to take such lip from a mere snot-nosed lieutenant, but these Spetsnaz types considered themselves God’s anointed under the best of circumstances. Unfortunately, this particular example came with a curt set of sealed orders from the Pacific Fleet Directorate that squarely placed the sub commander and his boat at the beck and call of Tomashenko. To disregard either the word or spirit of those orders would be extremely bad joss in the shrinking Russian navy.
The sub skipper watched as Tomashenko and his platoon lined out, dark shapes against the ice, trudging toward the shadowed silhouette of Wednesday Island. He was glad to see them go. His soul and his ship were his own again for a time. He was pleased to have that particular outfit clear of his decks as well. Tomasheko’s force had to be one of the most thoroughly cold-blooded– and murderous-looking crews he had ever encountered. And given his twenty years of service in the Russian military, that was saying something.
“Clear the bridge!” The submarine commander lifted his voice in a hoarse bellow. “All lookouts below!”
As his seamen brushed past him to clatter down the ladder, he pushed the brass button beside the waterproof intercom. “Control room, this is the bridge. Prepare to take her down!”
